


Shine

by TheTalentedMrHolmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Asexuality, Bees, Break Up, Dancing, Epistolary, Fluff, Jealous John, Little Arguments, M/M, MI6 Victor, Not Beta Read, Reunions, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Smoking, Writer Victor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-06 20:42:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3147950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTalentedMrHolmes/pseuds/TheTalentedMrHolmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a swift breakup and years of no contact, Victor Trevor finds his way back into Sherlock's life. But can Sherlock find it in his heart to forgive him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notvictor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notvictor/gifts).



> This is a gift for Susan (not-victor) for the Viclock Gift Exchange. They listed quite a few things they were happy to receive and everything that I've covered (although some things you may need to squint at to see!) have been tagged above. I hope you like it!

_Sherlock,_

_I do not know when I’ll be able to write again,_

*

 

Zigeunerweisen always gave Sherlock a certain amount of introspection when playing his violin. The low and melancholic drawn out notes and the higher, technical rises that kept him alert combined to the perfect piece for him to think. Sarasate’s work helped him look inwards, to file away his thoughts, to assess his most troubling emotions. Music was never just a tool to think for Sherlock like so many believed; he’d always been passionate about it, otherwise he wouldn’t have pursued it. It showed in his body when he played, solitary and alone in the flat. He swayed in his dressing gown, dancing with the music as if every note was about him. He was so entranced he didn’t notice the door open.

“I always preferred the end of that piece.”

 

*

 

_so I’ll say this to you now how much I love you._

 

*

 

Sherlock stopped his plucking, jerking his head to the side to look at the door because no; that voice couldn’t be here. That smooth, rich honeyed voice couldn’t be in Baker Street. But his eyes - which he trusted to the moon and back - showed him that his ears weren’t lying after all. In his doorway stood a man he had given up hope of ever seeing again. He gaped for a long moment before he recovered, occupying his hands with putting his violin away so he could turn his face to the shadow.

"You always preferred lighthearted music, contrary to your taste in poetry." His words were clipped short, staccato. Despite this they were still terribly revealing to the other man and they both knew it. Victor had always been hearty, spirited and full blooded with his emotions, especially where music was concerned. Deleting useless facts was as easy as deducing someone's dominant hand, but when it came to useless facts about Victor, the feat was near impossible. His heart clung to the gems of indulgence and his mind simply couldn't refuse. He cursed human beings, sentiment, and all that went with the pair before turning to Victor, sharp words on his tongue.

"Too right, old sport." Victor replied, standing closer than Sherlock had previously thought. Victor was trying to seem casual, charming even, but his gaze was soft and sad, as if detecting Sherlock's inner turmoil. Sherlock wouldn't have been surprised if he could; Victor was always the one that could understand him even in the most trying times. Sherlock stepped back and hollowly threatened to add Victor's name to his mental list of things to curse.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked, his voice softer - in awe, he thought with derision - than he had intended.

Victor seemed to notice his tension. Paused. Smiled shyly. "I wanted to see you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and brushed past him, needing air. A space to think. Anything.

"You could have stayed. You would have seen me every day, all day." He said bitterly. He stood at the window, one arm resting against the glass. Chill crept through his dressing gown.

"Sherlock..." His deep eyes were hollowed with sorrow. The left corner of his mouth - always the most expressive - turned downwards. "I'm terribly sorry that I left you."

Sherlock clenched his eyes shut tight, his breath caught in his throat. He didn't swallow, for fear his throat would click with dryness if he did. When he spoke again his words were hoarse with vulnerability.

"Why are you here?" He asked again, but Victor understood his meaning.

"I've retired. My last mission ended a week ago."

The sound of Sherlock grinding his back teeth together filled the room.

"Sherlock, I thought-"

"Oh! Did you?" He interrupted, his voice high and light. Pleasant, even.

Mocking, definitely.

The silence stretched out between them until Sherlock was almost tempted to turn around. A terrible part of his mind told him that if he did, Victor wouldn't be there anymore. That he was just a bittersweet figment of his imagination, taunting him in sick punishment. He was probably lying in the bathroom with his arm bound, only to be saved when John got desperate for a piss.

"Sherlock," (Sherlock's shoulders would have drooped in relief if he hadn't been careful. His insides melted and squirmed with hidden delight when he heard Victor's voice say his name again.) "Sherlock, I wrote to you. I knew I couldn't just leave like that. I know I dropped right off the map and you had no explanation, not even a real goodbye, and you were owed more than that. You are the love of my life. You are more than a few words on a page and I-"

"But you left, Victor."

Sherlock couldn't take anymore after that. When Victor was nervous or distressed he could talk for England. Usually his ramblings were very well spoken too, something Sherlock had always found to be charming.

He turned, praying his deluded mind or hopeful reality would keep Victor where he was. Despite the vehemence and the hate in his voice, his eyes begged the man to stay.

"After everything, you left with a note that barely filled a page. Not even one hundred words. You left! And you claim to be surprised by why I prefer more melancholic tunes than you do. It is because it consumes me! It leaves me with an ache I cannot process, especially not without you!"

He was almost panting with the release of restrained emotion. He hadn't let himself simply feel what he was feeling, unencumbered, for years. Not after Victor disappeared.

"You can have me now, Sherlock. I'm not asking for it to be like it was. I don't deserve it, but I wanted the chance to know you as the man you are now and fall in love with your smile all over again. I didn't think it would be possible, but I'm home. I'm home, Sherlock. I can see it in you - you and I both know what we want from this impossibility. It doesn't need to hurt. Difficult of course, but not painful. Let me love you as the man I am now."

With parted his lips Sherlock stepped closer to Victor. Heavy pounding filled his ears and he flushed, backing away again 

The door to 221B opened and a slightly breathless John appeared.

 

*

 

_Even if I am in someone else’s bed, or someone else’s heart,_

 

 

*

 

Sherlock's gaze flickered across the bags John was holding while Victor and John sized each other up with twin looks of possessiveness.

Perhaps it had been the way Victor had been looking at him, or his outstretched hand towards Sherlock's cheek, but something about him must have been blatantly obvious for John to have caught onto their relationship status and tone of conversation immediately. The doctor frowned and opened his mouth, but was cut short when Sherlock spoke over him.

"I'm sure the frozen peas you just bought would be quite ruined if you continue to gawp, John." He cut in, smoothing out his robe like it was the finest silk in the world before sitting in his usual chair. The other two stared at him, bewildered, as he took out his rosin and violin bow. "And yes - before you ask - Victor will have coffee, with honey. Use mine, not the stuff you call honey. It's ridiculous what they label honey sometimes, Victor."

"Still entertaining the Strad, then?" Victor asked, bypassing a possibly odd conversation with smooth charm. He settled into John's chair while the shortest man in the room continued to gawp - shopping bags in hand - at the man who possessed a smile too enthralling for words and the gall to sit in his chair across from his flatmate.

"If you are incorrectly referring to the Stradivarius, then yes, obviously I'm still playing the same." Sherlock said, his voice sounding annoyed, but if anyone were to look closer they would see playfulness dancing in his eyes. And Victor was looking very close indeed. He laughed with the volume of a man reborn. His smile was like the sunrise.

"Be glad I said Strad and not Diva, I know how tightly that one always used to wind you up, mon petit vierge." Victor purred in reply, a finger running over his bottom lip, curled in a smile.

"For a delicate wordsmith you are too fond of butchering your own tools." Sherlock replied dryly, sweeping his hand up and down the bow.

"Perhaps you are right. After all, you've treated your Stradivarius so well and it's lasted all these years. Maybe I could apply the philosophy of dedication and deep love to other aspects of my life as well?" He was delicate this time with his words, all carefully chosen and perfectly paced.

"Maybe you could, Vic. 

Sherlock gave Victor a knowing look and turned his gaze back to his bow, feeling surreal. He still hadn't forgiven Victor, but he knew he wouldn't be able to live happily knowing Victor was alive and in the country but not welcome in his home. Victor would understand and most certainly win back his trust. It was simply the way they worked and Sherlock wouldn't miss it for the world.

 

*

 

_remember: you are the only love of my brief shining existence._

 

*

 

"Sherlock?"

He was standing as though he was in a whole other word, when in reality his body was in the living room of 221B and it was the middle of the night.

After some thought and lots of tossing and turning, Victor had got up from Sherlock's bed (he had insisted that Victor was to sleep in his bed while he occupied himself with an experiment) and searched for the man. He was surprised to find him awake and not slumped over a notebook. He was used to the feeling, but usually his scrawl was ideas for characters and plots, even lines of poetry he needed to write before it slipped from his mind - not encrypted observations of rotting toes.

"You alright, old sport?" He asked quietly, not wanting to spoil the warm hush that blanketed the room. Victor knew though that sometimes Sherlock's emotions confused him and he wouldn't be surprised if Sherlock was feeling something out of reach and needed help understanding after his unexpected return into his life. He was still feeling quite overwhelmed himself.

"Do you still have those cigars you used to love?" Sherlock curiously, dragging his distant gaze away from the holes in the wall. Ash #2, type: cigar, taste: Victor.

"Yeah," Victor replied softly, walking soundlessly across the room to rummage through the inside pocket of his jacket. He took out a tin and passed it to the other man after taking one for himself. "Want to take a walk?"

He was sure that Doctor Watson wouldn't appreciate Sherlock smoking out the living room and Sherlock obviously came to the same conclusion, as he nodded in the moonlight, moving to put on his shoes and coat over his pyjamas. Victor quickly dressed into something a bit warmer and in moments they were stepping out onto an empty street.

Victor cupped his hand around Sherlock's, hiding the cigar from the breeze as he lit the tip. His fingertips were cold and rough, but gentle in their nature. They kissed the back of Sherlock's hand as he pulled away, a lover's touch. He lit his own and then they started to walk.

The sunrise hit them after an hour warming each other's sides on a cool bench in the park. Victor took Sherlock's palm in his and lifted his hand to his lips so he could touch his mouth to the other's knuckles gently.

"I will always shine on you, Sherlock." He said quietly, looking out across the field of grass, glowing softly pink in the morning sun. "My love for you is never ending, glowing in my heart the way it does. I'd never stop-"

"-Dance with me," Sherlock interrupted, looking the most alive and awake Victor had seen in hours. "Stop- Just stop talking and dance with me."

And they danced, Sherlock in his pyjamas and coat, as the sun rose over their heads. Victor hummed, giving them a sweet melody to sway along to.

"I wrote this for you." Sherlock said after a moment, the tune triggering memories of a cold university room and a warm body in his bed beside him. "I thought about your poetry and your stories, your fondness for space, your love of bees. The way you would laugh when I wasn't joking. You made me adore you and everything you adored. You made me laugh even when I wasn't joking. And you were right, Vic."

"Oh?" Victor hummed, amused as he watched Sherlock with fondness and deep love dancing in his twinkling eyes. "When?"

"In your letter. No matter what happens, you will always find me again and you'll be ready to love me, to shine on me like the sun and the moon. And I-... Vic, I-"

His struggles were silenced with a kiss, stealing away his breath and his worries with one simple touch.

Victor was smiling when he pulled back, his hand gripping Sherlock's tightly in his joy. Sherlock couldn't help but compare him to a puppy.

"Promise you'll remember that," Victor murmured, touching his forehead to Sherlock's. His eyes flickered over Sherlock's face in love and wonder. "That thought. Because it'll never stop being true."

A smile flickered onto Sherlock's lips and he nodded, his cold nose grazing Victor's. He spoke quietly, his expression warming. "I promise."

 

* 

 

_But I will be with you again soon. Maybe in this world, maybe the next._

_Soon will never be soon enough for me, Sherlock._

_Eternally yours,_

_V.T._

 


End file.
